“What do you do for a living, sweetie?”
Stalling, she asked, “You don’t remember my name, do you?”
His grin widened. “Caught me. I know you told me last night, but I was a little out of it.”
“Isabella. Isabella Hammond. You can call me Izzy if you like.” That was what Cam had called her for as long as she could remember.
“I don’t like.” His brow wrinkled into a comical frown. “I bought my partner’s kid a toy named Izzy the Iguana. You, my dear, are no lizard. How about if I call you Bella?”
“That makes me sound like a princess or something,” she scoffed, but then laughed. “You can call me anything you like, as long as it’s not rude.”
Brandon raised his right arm behind his head. “I’d never call you anything rude. As far as I’m concerned, you are a princess. My guardian angel.”
For some reason, seeing the sexy patch of hair under his arm seemed more intimate than having seen his more private parts. She wondered if it was a silky as it looked. Her fingers practically itched to find out.
“I assure you, Brandon, I’m no angel. And if I were a princess, then I’m only lucky enough to become queen of this small castle.” She waved a hand, signifying the cabin.
His soft chuckle sent warm tingles skipping over her flesh. “So, what do you do for a living? Are you a nurse? You have the hands for it.”
She shook her head, realizing she wouldn’t get out of giving him an answer. “I’m...currently between jobs. And I only know first aid.”
Those intense eyes of his were like rich, dark coffee. Nearly black. “Resetting a dislocated shoulder is a bit more than first aid, but all right. What did you do before you were between jobs?”
“Is interrogation your specialty, Mr. Wilks?”
“Unless you’re a hardened criminal—” He quirked a sexy eyebrow at her. “—you have nothing to fear.”
Isabella sighed but couldn’t stop the smile. “Well, I was my uncle’s... secretary?”
“You’re not sure?”
“More like his research assistant, I guess.” She still hadn’t come up with a title to give herself to put on the résumé she’d been struggling to write this past week.
“Was he a professor?” Brandon asked.
“No, a writer.”
“Really? What did he write?”
Isabella frowned. That was a difficult question to answer. How did she explain that he wrote about whatever caught his fancy, whether it was about the diamond mines in Africa, the ecological effects on the Great Barrier Reef, or the state of living conditions in rural America?
“Bella?” Brandon asked quietly.
“Mostly magazine articles. He wrote freelance for a lot of different publications. Everything from National Geographic to Christianity Today. Whatever he got into his head that he wanted to learn about, we trekked off across the globe to research, and he wrote. And then he found somewhere to sell his articles.”
Brandon nodded, obviously interested. “So, how’d you end up in the wilds of Alaska?”
“Never been here.” She shrugged. “Wanted to be alone for a while. Needed some time to figure out what I’m going to do with my life now that I don’t have my uncle to follow around.” She sighed and rubbed her fingers along the bridge of her nose. “I have no education beyond high school and can’t even come up with an official title to give myself for a résumé.” His gaze was too intense. She focused on his chest. “I never thought there’d be a time that I wasn’t working with Cam.”
Brandon shifted, and his hand settled over hers on the side of the couch. “How’d he die?”
Chapter Four
She was not going to cry in front of this man, she thought, even as tears welled in her eyes. Cam’s lifeless body lying on the dirt floor flashed before her eyes. Shaking her head, she pulled her hand from Brandon’s and pushed to her feet. “You should try to get some more rest. A body heals quicker when it’s sleeping.”
“Bella...”
“I’m going to take the fishing pole down to the creek. It’s only a little ways away. If you need me, call, I should be able to hear you.”
“Bella—”
“If you get hungry, there’re some cookies and other assorted junk food in the pantry. There’s juice mix if you don’t like the water. It’s been in the jug a couple of days and gone a bit stale. I’ll refill it before tonight.” She grabbed the small tackle box off a shelf in the pantry.
“Damn it, Bella, I’m sorry!” He groaned and grabbed his head.
Feeling like crying even more for having caused Brandon pain, she went back to his side. “It’s okay. It’s okay,” she whispered. Taking his hand from his head, she lowered it to his stomach, brushed the hair off his forehead, rubbed his temples. He’d done nothing wrong. He was simply asking questions that she needed to learn to answer without getting so emotional. “It’s all right. I just can’t talk about him yet.”
Brandon caught one of her hands in his and brought it to his lips, kissing her palm. The floor seemed to tilt beneath her. Her knees went watery, and she had to lean against the edge of the couch to remain upright.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered against her skin.
No touch from anyone, even way back when she’d first been married years and years ago, had ever caused such strange, wonderful sensations to rocket through her body. His lips were warm, moist, firm, yet oh, so soft.
“It’s all right, Brandon,” she whispered, her voice raspy. “Get some rest.” She tugged her hand from his. “I’ll shut the door on my way out so the mosquitoes don’t get you.”
His eyes closed. One side of his lips kicked up in the tiniest smile, making her heart skipped a beat. “Thanks, princess.”
“You didn’t forget my name again, did you?” she asked, trying to break the tension that pulled her so tight she thought she might break.
“Never.”
Isabella settled the corner of the sleeping bag over his chest and lightly brushed her fingers through his hair again, idly wondering how horrible her own head looked. Though soft, her hair often took on the appearance of a rusted Brillo pad when she didn’t use anything to tame it. She hadn’t worried about bringing a mirror because there wouldn’t be anyone around to impress. Or at least she’d thought. And she certainly hadn’t packed any styling gel or hair spray. The last thing a person needed in the wilds of Alaska was sweet-scented anything that would have the mosquitoes swarming more than usual.
She reluctantly pulled away, deciding the best thing she could do was to keep her hands off the handsome devil. Picking up the tackle box she’d dropped when he’d shouted, she pulled a baseball cap off a hook near the door and quietly slipped out, silently shutting the door behind her.
~*~*~
Over the next several hours, Brandon dozed. Bella did her best to be silent, but he was aware of the door opening and closing a few times, small rustling sounds then something that sounded suspiciously like Bella munching on potato chips.
He hated that he’d upset her. On more than one occasion women he’d dated had called him downright nosy. Curiosity had always been an integral part of his being. It served him well in his job.
Of course, he and Bella weren’t dating. However, under other circumstances, he would definitely like to give it a shot. She was sweet, so filled with caring. Seeing him as the bad boy with a good heart, most women that came after him wanted an adventure. They were sorely disappointed when they discovered he was just about as typical as the next guy. He had a dangerous job, but when he was off the clock he was about as exciting as...an accountant. For some reason, though he barely knew the woman, he got the feeling Bella wasn’t out for an adventure. She’d had enough of her own.
Bella snuck out again, softly shutting the door behind her. Brandon smiled to himself as he thought about her eyes. Damn, they were sexy. So vibrantly green. As bright as sunshine on a spring meadow. Huge and expressive. He couldn’t ever remember a woman looking at him with such
tenderness. Of course, he supposed, his injured state and the fact that she must have dragged him out of the lake like a drowned puppy might have something to do with that.
He’d be laughed right out of employment if any of the guys he worked undercover with could see him now, meekly accepting the petting and pampering. Letting a sweet little woman rush to his side to aid him in everything from taking a couple aspirin to getting dressed.
But her fingers had trembled when he’d kissed her hand. He wanted to know how she’d gotten the calluses. Wanted to know how she knew what his tattoo represented. He wanted to learn everything about her. Not just the cop in him or pure nosiness. She intrigued him. A lone woman in the middle of nowhere. Sad. Hurting inside. Yet strong enough to save his miserable hide.
Besides the women who chased men in law enforcement looking for some excitement, who gave him the physical release he needed on the odd occasion when the urge became unbearable, he hadn’t dated much in the past few years. He was a loner to some extent, enjoying evenings in rather than going out. Preferred a home-cooked meal over expensive restaurants. And he loathed the singles’ clubs and bar scene. Too many marriages broke up over a night out with the boys. Or the wives of the men he worked with, hanging out in search of more attention than they got at home.
Ah, to have someone like Bella to come home to every night. Now that would be a treat. Someone to meet him at the door after a hard day. She’d kiss him in greeting, and he’d hold her close, feeling those sweet, soft breasts against his chest. Sharing a quiet meal or watching a movie and splitting a big bowl of popcorn. Sleeping next to her warm little body all night as she curled around him...
Damn it, he must have hit his head harder than he thought. What the hell was wrong with him? Here he was, barely able to drag his ass off this horribly lumpy couch to use the outhouse, and daydreaming about one frizzy-haired, green-eyed angel. And getting a hard-on in the process.
He threw his arm over his eyes, gasping as pain radiated outward into his skull from the lump on his forehead.
Of course she was being sweet. It was obviously a part of her nature. She’d dragged some stranger from the lake, hauled him home and cared for him. Not many women would have done that, especially out in the middle of nowhere.
But she’d known about his Special Forces training. Recognized his tattoo. If she knew anything at all about the Viper Team, she probably would have realized they weren’t into harming helpless little women. How the hell did she know? Even having an uncle who was a writer—there wasn’t one man he knew in the Vipers, past or present, who would grant an interview about his job. It wasn’t done. Ever.
Too many unanswered questions, and he wasn’t about to upset her again by asking them. Not yet, anyway. She upset too easily. But she sure as hell didn’t want him to know he’d upset her. Another trait he admired in her. Most women he’d known would have burst out crying and waited for him to figure out how to fix their problems. Obviously, she wasn’t one to sit around waiting for any man to fix anything. She’d gone underwater to pull a half-dead stranger out of an airplane, set his dislocated shoulder, and then nursed him back to health. If that wasn’t guts worth commendation, he didn’t know what was.
~*~*~
By mid-afternoon the gnats and mosquitoes were driving Isabella mad. A slight headache had set up a steady thrum behind her eyes, exacerbated by the intense sunlight flashing off the rippling water of the stream. Laying the fishing pole to the side, she stripped off her sweatshirt, grabbed the can of mosquito repellant, and sprayed herself from the top of her head to her waist. With only her sports bra as coverage, sunburn was probable, but singed skin was better than broiling to death. She wouldn’t stay out much longer, anyway. She’d caught five good-sized arctic grayling. One more and she’d reach her legal limit. Not that she expected Fish and Game to be in the neighborhood, but six should be enough to feed the two of them for dinner. She’d make mashed potatoes and open a can of corn. Her mouth watered in anticipation as she cast her line back into the water.
Having only deep-sea fished in the past, she was thankful she’d asked the pilot who flew her in how to use the fly rod. Bottom-of-the-ocean fishing, or trawling for salmon in salt water, was a whole different game than using the eight-foot-long, flimsy contraption. She was getting better, though. Much better. The fish didn’t seem to care how clumsily she cast or how many times her line tangled in the willow bushes behind her or across the narrow stream. Thank goodness Brandon was too incapacitated to be there with her. He’d probably laugh at her.
She hated anyone laughing at her. Men wanted to be macho, show the little lady how to do things. She’d once gone downhill skiing in Aspen with a guy. He’d been nice, until she spent hours on her rear end, unable to stay on her skis for more than a few moments at a time. The jerk had laughed her right off the mountain.
“Asshole,” she muttered at the memory as her tiny mosquito hook tangled in the bushes behind her for about the ten-thousandth time.
Then there’s the other side of it, she thought as she jerked the line free of the willow and shook it out, relieved there were no major bird’s nest snarls in the line this time. The men who couldn’t stand a woman being better at anything. A woman can spend all the time she wants in the kitchen or the bedroom, but beat them at any manly game, and they can’t stand it.
Once, when her ex-husband was at work—before he was her ex—she’d had to do some quick plumbing when the kitchen sink sprang a leak. She’d never done plumbing in her life, but she went down to the local hardware store and explained the problem to the helpful salesman. She bought the fixtures to repair the sink and got instructions from the man at the store. In the middle of the repairs, Bart showed up half drunk, having stopped for a couple beers with the boys on the way home.
“Plumbing is the man’s job,” he’d informed her. After pulling her from under the sink, he completely ruined everything. They’d had to call in a professional plumber after he was done with it.
Isabella gently set the hook and started pulling in the line when she felt a tiny nibble. Backing away from the water, she pulled the fish onto the bank. Huh, this one looked different than the others. She picked it up by its gills and very carefully pulled the hook from its mouth. The fish wiggled and squirmed, but she didn’t want to kill it until she was certain it was edible.
One-handed, she reached into the tackle box and pulled out the fishing regulations booklet and flipped through the pages until she found the pictures of all the freshwater fish in Alaska and their names. A dolly varden. What a strange name. But, it was edible. She finished the job quickly and put it on the small metal stringer with the five grayling.
Her stomach growled. After all the weight she’d lost, her body was doing its best to make up for it. After rinsing her hands in the icy stream, she sat on a small boulder and picked up her bag of barbeque potato chips. The skin on her stomach bunched and sagged grotesquely when she slouched, and she could almost see her ribs. She’d always been a little on the plump side. Not fat, just...a little rounded. Now her skin didn’t know what to do. Not only was she too thin, her muscle tone, something she’d always been proud of, had shrunk to nearly nothing.
Her back, shoulders and legs ached from hauling Brandon’s considerable weight around. Looking back on it, she realized she must have been running on some major adrenaline. How else would she have been able to drag him all the way to the cabin? Even before, when she’d been in excellent shape, she’d have had a tough time dragging his limp body that far.
It’d been worth it, though, even if he asked questions she couldn’t yet answer. He was getting better, and she had to admit it was nice to have someone to talk to. A month of solitude had sounded heavenly not so long ago when, in all actuality, she probably needed some good long-term head shrinking, something better than the crisis counseling she’d gone through upon her return to the USA.
Confusion and numbing pain swirled through her at every turn. She missed Cam with all h
er heart. Except for the three years she’d been married, she’d lived with Cam since she was twelve years old. He’d been only ten years her senior and acted like a big brother rather than an uncle. She’d thought Bart a Godsend for both her and Cam. Her uncle needed to lead his own life, not spend his youth watching over his orphaned niece. But when she’d walked in on Bart in bed with their very married, much older neighbor, she’d had nowhere else to turn. And Cam had welcomed her back with open arms.
He’d been gearing up for his first adventure to South Africa to see firsthand how bad the living conditions were. His only goal in life was find and show the world the truth. About everything.
So, he’d invited her to go with him. She’d hated it. Ethiopia had been hot and miserable. By the time they’d returned to San Francisco, her heart had broken a thousand times from witnessing the horrors of the squalid living conditions, the disease, poverty and starvation.
The next trip had been better, though. Two weeks on a fishing trawler off the coast of North Carolina. There to observe, she’d quickly slipped into the role of keeping her rather unorganized uncle in line. He, on the other hand, had gotten right into the thick of it, risking life and limb alongside the fishermen. That trip had been an adventure, an exciting, incredible learning experience.
Cam paid her twenty-five percent of whatever he made from the published articles. The more he wrote, the more famous his name became, the more he could demand. They’d become partners without even realizing it was happening.
That first trip to Africa seemed so long ago, and they’d had so many adventures over the last ten years. Some wonderful, some horrid.
How much more honest could you get than being shot point-blank in the forehead by a government refugee?
No more adventures. This trip to Alaska would be the last one for a while. Her exploration into The Last Frontier had turned out more exciting that she thought it would. Out of all the tiny lakes across the tundra-covered North, DEA agent and ex-Viper Brandon Wilks had fallen into hers.
Alaskan Nights Page 4
